


You Started Foreign to Me

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4037332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a student who just moved from France, Grantaire is a skeleton shift grocery store worker, and maybe it started with just studying Spanish, but it definitely doesn't end there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Started Foreign to Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's set in South Carolina because a). it's atmospheric, b). why not, and (most importantly) c). I have no idea how grocery stores work in Europe, let alone if they have 24 hour ones, so. You know. Write what you know. 
> 
> For the itty bit of foreign language without immediate translation, just mouse over it.

It’s gotten to the point that Grantaire is actually slightly worried about the blonde in the produce department. 

She hadn’t thought anything of it when the girl had walked in (well — that’s a blatant lie, it was 2:40AM and the girl not only looked completely awake, but also walked with enough purpose than Grantaire had instinctually turned to see if there was a person or small army waiting for her to command; how could Grantaire not notice? But she hadn’t thought that the girl would be a problem; that was usually reserved for drunk, middle aged men, not 5’1 girls with red blazers and ripped jeans), but now she was slightly worried that the girl was either a). plotting how to steal, b). blow up the store, or c). had wandered out of a mental hospital. 

At least, Grantaire can't come up with another explanation to why she's been stonily staring at the orange display for at least ten minutes without moving. 

Grantaire gives it 3 more minutes before she’ll get up off her stool at the register and ask the blonde what her deal is. And then after that has passed, she gives it 2 more, because, hey, she’s intimidated, no shame in that. 

Picking her cuticles, she side-eyes the girl, but the girl's still stock still at the oranges, and the minute hand continues to tick. Once it’s past the 3AM marker, Grantaire can’t help sighing. She slides off her stool, gathers whatever courage is lying dusty within her, and shuffles up to the blonde. She doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” Grantaire says. The girl visibly startles.

“Hey,” She repeats, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“So, just checking in on you. You’ve been here for like, twenty minutes, and you’re just staring at oranges, so. If you need help, I’m here.” Grantaire points a thumb at herself and gives a wide, fake customer service smile, but internally, she’s wincing enough to know that she’s going to be up the next three nights thinking about what a social failure this is.

“Oh,” the girl says. “Do you know the Spanish word for orange? The fruit, not color.”

“Naranja,” Grantaire’s surprised into answering. The girl snaps her fingers.

“That’s it. Thank you.” Grantaire blinks at her. The girl stares back, still not smiling, but also not looking like she’s plotting destruction anymore.

“Is there, uh, a reason for wondering that?” Grantaire asks, and tries to casually rest her arm on the banana display. It’s too narrow and her arm falls off, which figures.

“I’m studying Spanish at the local college, and the fruit and vegetable test is in a week. I learn visually.” Which, Grantaire supposes, is sort of an acceptable answer. “On the other fruits, I’ve placed the Spanish word on a notecard, but I forgot my orange one. It’s been frustrating me for like, ten minutes. So thanks.” Looking around, Grantaire does see 3x5 white notecards resting on almost all the produce, all with almost illegibly tiny handwriting. Blinking in surprise, she turns back to the girl.

“When did you do that? I’ve been watching you this entire time, and I didn’t notice you putting them up.”

“When I first walked in, I did a sweep of the department, and put them on the right respective fruit. You were doodling on a receipt paper; I looked over.” The girl squints at Grantaire. “You were watching me the entire time?” Grantaire chuckles awkwardly, and crosses her ankles. It feels unnatural, so she uncrosses them, and then realizes she’s being incredibly awkward, and stops moving.

“I don’t get a lot of customers. I was just making sure you weren’t stealing anything. You have been in this department for a while, after all.” That’s close enough to the truth that Grantaire doesn’t feel too bad; there’s no way in hell she’s mentioning that she was also appreciating the view; that’s not something you admit in South Carolina.

“I wouldn’t steal anything,” the girl says, sounding so scandalized that Grantaire has to stifle a grin. “This store is obviously privately owned, and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone who is trying to keep up a business in this economy, especially if they are working in the same market against massive, monopoly corporations like Wal-Mart who treat their employees like shit in the name of making a dollar.”

“Are you suggesting family owned businesses don’t treat their employees like shit? Because, boy, do I have some stories for you,” Grantaire says, feeling a bit more at ease. Being sarcastic is far more natural to her than ‘polite service with a smile.’

“No, of course not, but they aren’t doing it on a national scale, and aren’t making billions of dollars off it either.” The girl taps her foot, her fingers rapidly drumming against her leg. She’s short enough to be a middle schooler, but she gives off the same air as would a seasoned Marine, as if demanding respect, or at least, no bullshit. Which, of course, makes Grantaire want to give her a bit of bullshit.

“Are you suggesting that because Wal-Mart is a greater evil, the plights of workers in small businesses are less important?”

“No, I’m suggesting that if someone tried to take on the plights of all small business workers problems, it’d take years and years just to _find_ them, and more and more to build cases to fix it. In the same amount of time, by dedicating all effort and time and ambition into building one large case against a company that is harming millions and millions, then some good could be done and fix the problems of those millions. It’s simply a question of logistics of how we could help the largest amount of people in the shortest amount of time, not who has it harder.” Grantaire isn’t sure what her face is doing, but she’s pretty sure it’s not a good thing, going by the girl’s frown and increasingly agitated posture.

“Are you planning on saving millions and millions of workers soon? Because I was planning on going home and eating a jar of olives, but you know. Whatever works for you.”

“Yes, I am,” the girl answers, eyes darting to the left suddenly, awkwardly. “Someday.”

“Good luck,” Grantaire says, and knows immediately that it came out too sarcastic.

“It can be done, you know. Monopolies can be dismantled, people can be helped. Look at the Triangle Fire, or _the Jungle_ , and what that did for worker’s rights—”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire interrupts. “I don’t actually care.” The girl’s lips thin.

“Then why did you ask?” 

“To be fair, I didn’t. I wished you luck.”

“In a tone that asked me to disprove you.” Grantaire’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline.

“I don’t think a _tone of voice_ can ask you to give me a lecture about American workers' rights in the 1920s. Plus, if we’re going to talk about it, Wal-Mart is never going to go away. People would rather their neighbor be treated like carrion and be paid like they're less than that than pay 20 cents more for their milk.”

“I would pay more in a heartbeat,” the girl says, voice remarkably tight.

“You’re alone in that, apparently, considering Wal-Mart still exists and this store gets less action than a white boy with basketball shorts.”

“I am _not_ alone _,”_ the girl hisses, leaning forward, eyes flashing. Grantaire involuntarily takes a step back, and hits into a fruit scale. “I know _plenty_ of people who would be on my side.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, and actually means it. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. I just think you’re fighting an uphill battle.”

“I _know that!”_ The girl practically yells, and Grantaire is horrified to see that there might be tears in her eyes. Without another word, the girl storms past Grantaire and out of the store.

It’s 3:17AM, and all Grantaire can hear is the second hand of the clock. It’s not like it was bustling with people before the girl had come in, but suddenly Grantaire feels desperately alone. With a heavy sigh she feels to her bones, she slowly goes a picks up all of the girl’s Spanish cards, wonderingly silently how the conversation got off the rails so quickly and so thoroughly, and how she managed to fuck that one up quite so spectacularly.

She’s careful to put the cards in a perfect pile, and rubber band them, in hopes the girl will come back to claim them.

She doesn’t, and the night shifts to day. 

* * *

The next night at about 2:10AM, Grantaire is inventorying granola bars. She’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, her curly, black hair in an messy bun with a pencil holding it up, her hightops tapping idly to the quiet 90s pop music her phone is playing to make it seem like she’s not alone. She’s staring intently at the inventory sheet, and is thus promptly scared into dropping it when someone coughs loudly behind her. Turning, she sees the same girl from the night before. She scrambles to stand, some of her hair falling out of the bun and into her face.

“Hey,” she says, sounding too breathless for her liking.

“Hi,” the girl answers. “I came to apologize.”

“What for?” Grantaire didn’t remember her doing anything in warrant that.

“For getting so agitated, and running out crying on you, and leaving all my cards here for you to clean up.”

“Speaking of.” Grantaire motions to her to follow her. “I got those for you.”

“Thanks,” she hears behind her. They make the short walk to register, and Grantaire grabs the cards from where she was hiding them behind the receipt printer.

“No problem. And you don’t need to apologize. I goaded you.”

“Still,” the girl sighs. “Still. I have a bad habit of getting a bit too invested in arguments, and I’m a bit—” she pauses, clearly struggling for words, which Grantaire gallantly ignores by pretending to be invested in picking off her nail polish on her thumb instead of in the answer. “—emotional right now.” She finally finishes.

“Well, no harm, no foul,” Grantaire answers, smiling as brightly as she can muster. The girl takes a moment, blinking, looking taken aback.

“Right,” she says after a moment. “Sorry. It’s been a hard couple of months. I normally never cry.”

“Well, that’s just not healthy.” Grantaire sits on her stool at the register, legs swinging. “I cry at least once a week. Gets it out of your system, so you don’t have those major breakdowns when you do something stupid like forget to call the dentist or drop an egg.”

“I don’t like crying,” the girl says stiffly. Which, well.

“Does anyone?” Grantaire asks. The girl doesn’t answer. “What’s your name?”

“Enjolras,” she answers, which replaces ‘angry, pretty, tiny blonde’ in Grantaire’s head.

“Grantaire.” She puts a hand forward to shake, which Enjolras does, a beat too slow.

“I get the name tag now,” Enjolras says. Grantaire blinks before looking down, seeing the crooked “R” she wrote on the white pin on her first day. She had forgotten about it; no customer calls you by name in this business.

“You know French?” Grantaire asks. Her white t-shirt is getting increasingly sweaty as the night beats on, and idly she hopes it isn’t going see-through. She fans it with her hand, a movement Enjolras’ eyes track.

“I’m from France. Just moved from there about two months ago,” Enjolras answers, her eyes still moving with Grantaire’s hand.

“That explains the accent. It’s not something you hear that often down here. It’s exotic.”

“Exotic?” Enjolras’ eyebrows lift. “To me, your accent is exotic. And slow.”

“Us southerners have our drawl.” Grantaire grins. “How did you get from France to South Carolina? And why? I’m assuming it’s not to study Spanish at our community college?”

“I needed a change,” Enjolras answers. The heat beats on, distractingly hot, and obviously not only to Grantaire. Enjolras’ cheeks are flushed, and her red tank top is starting to stick to her. Not that Grantaire notices. “A big one. I’d been in the same small town my entire life, and I needed to go somewhere where I could make a difference, and become my own person, independent of everyone I know.”

“And how did you choose bumbfuck South Carolina?”

“I threw a dart.”

“Ah,” Grantaire answers, because she can’t think of anything else to say.

“I knew I wanted the United States, because English is my second language, and because you people need some help.” Grantaire snorts. “But I didn’t know where, so I just chose at random.”

“Regretting that now?” Grantaire asks, smiling. Enjolras grimaces.

“It’s so _hot_ here. How do you people even do this?”

“And it’s only the beginning of June, my friend. We haven’t even hit summer.” Enjolras groans loudly, bowing her head. Grantaire can see tendrils of sweat running down her neck.

“It’s so _hot._ In all of my 22 years in France, I don’t think it ever got this hot, and it’s like this _in the middle of the night_ in _June.”_

“It’ll keep getting worse, probably. The humidity is what kills you.” Grantaire isn’t exactly sure why she’s saying this. It probably isn’t helping.

“I wish I did more research. You don’t think about things like weather, but God, it makes a difference.”

“South Carolina, hot, sticky, uncomfortable, and boring. Good summation. You probably would have preferred the North.”

“Probably,” Enjolras agrees. “Your country is so much larger than I thought it was. I can drive an hour and it looks like I am in the same place.”

“Just wait until you road trip to Kansas,” Grantaire says, spinning a pen around her fingers. “Hours and hours and hours of corn.”

“That’s not my first idea of where to travel. And I won’t even get to travel, probably.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks. She can’t believe how long this conversation has been going on. They’re not even talking about anything, but for some reason, Enjolras is still standing there. Sure, looking vaguely uncomfortable and a bit sweaty, but still there, having this same inane discussion.

“My job. I work at the community college as the assistant director’s assistant and the social media director.” Grantaire mentally translates this to ‘I get people coffee, file papers, and do twitter posts that my boss takes credit for.’

“How’d you land that?”

“I moved here and needed a job. Having a transfer student working for them looks good, apparently.”

“So, you just moved here with no thought? No job, no house, nothing?”

“I bought an apartment before I came,” Enjolras says, shifting her weight to her other side. “But the rest of it, no. I just needed a change. And I picked specifically this area because of the community college, because I wanted to take Spanish classes.”

“Here, take my seat,” Grantaire says suddenly, sliding off. “You’ve been standing there for like ten minutes, I’m being rude.”

“It’s your seat,” Enjolras answers, narrowing her eyes. “You’re working, and probably tired. You take it.”

“I’ve been sitting for ten minutes, and longer before that on the floor. Take it, or we’re both standing.” Enjolras looks a bit tempted to stand just to spite her, but at the gentle push Grantaire gives, she sits.

“So, Spanish,” Grantaire begins again, before Enjolras can get angry about the chair. “Why Spanish?”

“My father is Spanish,” Enjolras says, and breathes a heavy, harsh laugh. “I never learned the language to spite him. But I’ve recently been reconnecting with my abuela over Skype, and I want to be able to talk to her properly. Plus, my best friend back home speaks it as a first language, and it’d be nice to be able to talk to him in his native language. After all, he’s spoken to me in my native language our entire lives without thinking twice. It’d be nice to return the favor.”

Mentally cataloguing how adorable it is that Enjolras is apparently reconnecting with her grandma on _Skype_ of all things, Grantaire asks, “Is your best friend helping you?”

“Courfeyrac? No.” Enjolras shakes her head. “It’s a surprise. I want to be able to have a full conversation with him over Skype for his birthday.”

“That’d be nice. Well, if you need help, I’m here from 1-6 every weekday night. Come anytime. I’m fluent.”

“You are?” Enjolras says, standing.

“Oh yeah. Mom’s side speaks it, and I learned it in school. Hablo Español.” Grantaire waves her hand around vaguely.

“Is that a sincere offer of help?” Enjolras asks, sounding unsure.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, and means it.

“Then I may take you up on that. I’m better at analytical work than I am at memorization. I struggle with languages.”

“Anytime,” Grantaire repeats.

“Okay,” Enjolras replies. “Okay.” She rocks back on her heels, her wide, blue eyes, suddenly intent on the floor. Grantaire waits her out, spinning and spinning the pen through her fingers, hoping it won’t go flying out of her hands and land 30 feet away.

“Banana?” Enjolras asks, quietly, eyes down. Grantaire grins.

“El plátano.”

* * *

“Maybe you can spell out the Spanish version with the fruits,” Grantaire suggests. “Would that cement it better?” Enjolras looks up helplessly from her place on the floor. It’s been three days in a row, and she isn’t getting much better at remembering the words. Her hair is frizzy and in her eyes, her flip-flops are somewhere in the dairy section, and her shirt is halfway damp with sweat. In these three days, Grantaire has learned that Enjolras prefers to be barefoot, has a habit of talking quickly when she gets excited, knows a strangely large amount about American industrial history, gets off topic quite easily, has a fondness for red, is a bit stiff and uncooperative but will unknowingly rock her shoulders to the beat of Uptown Funk, has a dry sense of humor that has Grantaire reeling to catch up, and a laugh that sounds like bells. Also, she is very bad at Spanish.

Grantaire has also learned a couple things about herself, including: the more comfortable she gets around someone, the more she slouches and the less she smiles; she apparently has a _thing_ for racerback tank tops; she gets tongue tied when she’s feeling fond of someone; and she is most definitely bisexual.

She already knew that last one, but it’s nice to have it so forcefully and unquestionably affirmed once in a while.

“Can I even do that?” Enjolras wipes at her eyes. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

“From who?” Grantaire’s arms sweep the store. “The only people in here are you and me, and that security camera, which, secret, isn’t even on; he put it up to scare people, but can’t afford someone to actually look at the tapes. I do nighttime register, stock, and that crap. We’re alone. And, as defacto acting manager, I say you can go right on ahead and play with our fruits. For, you know, school reasons. Because school is important. As is Spanish. A lot of people speak Spanish in the South, you know, that’s why all instruction manuals come with it also in Spanish. Though they might do that in the North too, I don’t know, I’ve lived here my entire life. I should check that. Buy a watch from a store in the North, and see if the manual comes in both English and Spanish.”

Another thing she’s learned about herself: she rambles around people she likes.

“You do that,” Enjolras says, standing. Grantaire averts her eyes as she stretches.

“Okay, take the pineapple.”

“Piño,” Enjolras says, reaching for it.

“Piña,” Grantaire corrects. Enjolras groans.

* * *

 “It’s tomorrow,” Enjolras says the second she walks in. It’s Monday, and Grantaire hasn’t seen her since Friday night. She only works weekdays, because that way she can be under 30 hours a week and they won’t actually have to pay her for full time or give her health insurance. The joys of minimum wage.

Being the case, she hasn’t seen Enjolras in 2 days, and is a bit embarrassed and annoyed with herself for actually missing her. She’s come to terms with the fact that she desperately needs more friends, and getting attached to virtual strangers is probably a bad idea. She has a naturally clingly nature, though, which is hard to circumvent. She’s desperately trying not to go all octopus on Enjolras.

“What’s tomorrow?” She asks, although she knows.

“The test, the fruit test, and I’m going to fail. I am going to fail and I am going to fail out of college, and they’re going to fire me, and I’m not going to be able to talk to Courfeyrac, and it’s going to be humiliating, and I don’t know _anything,_ Grantaire, _nothing._ I practice in my apartment and I don’t know _anything._ Why did I know it with you? How did I know it Friday night? Maybe I just need to see the fruits. But I won’t _have_ the fruits there, so I am going to _fail._ ” At about halfway of this speech, Grantaire slid off her stool, and walked up to Enjolras. She grips her shoulders, making Enjolras go silent. Grantaire looks down into her eyes, brown meeting blue. Absently, Grantaire notes that she is probably seven inches taller than Enjolras, and yet she still feels intimidated by her. Which, awesome.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, tone serious. “You are not going to fail. You’re incredibly intelligent and quick. You had this _down_ Friday, and you’re going to get it today, I swear to you. You will not fail. I don’t think you could if you tried. Do you understand me?” Enjolras nods silently, wetting her lips. “Good. What’s strawberry?”

“Fraise,” Enjolras answers, still staring into Grantaire eyes. Grantaire blinks.

“Uh, no.” After a moment, Enjolras’s eyes widen, and then her face goes bright red.

“That’s French. Sorry.” Grantaire laughs, full and outright, possibly for the first time in months; definitely for the first time in months because of another person, and not a television show. Enjolras smiles, like it was irrepressibly drawn from her despite the embarrassment.

“Struggles of knowing more than one language, right?” Grantaire laughs again. “Fresa, for the record.”

“I knew that,” Enjolras answers, stepping around Grantaire towards the produce.

“I know you did.” Grantaire smirks. “Because you’re smart.”

“Come on, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, impatient, but her smile is audible nonetheless. Grantaire watches as Enjolras skips backwards towards the produce, her arm forward in invitation. Grantaire completely ignores the beat her heart skips, and follows.

* * *

 “I fucking _aced_ that motherfucker,” Enjolras says, bursting into the store. Grantaire looks up, eyes wide, as does her customer, an elderly gentleman who is buying Nyquil.

“$1.42 is your change, sir, and I hope you enjoy your night,” Grantaire says, handing him his bottle and change. The man looks slightly horrified, but it isn’t anywhere close to Enjolras’ frozen expression when she catches sight of him. She squeaks quietly, and the runs into the dairy section.

“Children are hooligans,” the old man mutters. “This is why we should regulate immigration.”

“Of course sir,” Grantaire replies, smile gone plastic. She decides to completely ignore the fact that if it weren’t for ‘children’ the store wouldn’t be open to buy his fucking foreign made Nyquil, because sometimes, battles are not worth fighting.

She watches him slowly shuffle out the door, and then she takes off towards the dairy. She finds Enjolras half stuffed inside the milk cooler.

“Hey,” Grantaire says. Enjolras whines in response. “So I heard there was motherfucking test you motherfucking aced?”

“I’m so sorry. You’re not in trouble, are you?” Enjolras asks, eyes peeking up at Grantaire, who really can’t control her fond grin.

“No, of course not. He’s old, he’ll forget about it halfway home. Plus, who the fuck cares some old dude’s opinion?”

“I completely forgot that you are actually open for business at this time of night.”

“Yeah, so does almost everyone in this town, apparently.”

“Why are you guys even 24 hour? You can’t make enough to warrant staying open.”

“It’s technically a chain of three stores. The other two are in better locations, where 24 hours makes sense. The owner refuses to change the hours on this one, despite the bad business sense, because our motto is _Open 24/7 for your 24/7 needs_. Which sucks by the way. What kind of motto is that?”

“One that sucks.”

“Yes. Also, why are you sitting with milk, and why aren’t we talking about your test?”

“The milk is cool, which the air is not. And because I humiliated myself publically.”

“One person and a friend isn’t publically. Get out of there,” Grantaire says, holding out a hand. Enjolras gingerly takes it, and Grantaire takes a second to marvel at the softness of her hands and to be self conscious about the callouses on her own before pulling her up and moving on. “So, the test?”

“I fucking _aced_ it. I knew every single fucking one. Except for cabbage. But who the fuck cares about cabbage?”

“Apparently not us, since the store doesn’t have any, which is incidentally probably why you didn’t remember it. No spelling it out with thirty heads of cabbage. It’s repollo, by the way.”

“I wrote down ‘cabbago.’” Enjolras shrugs, making Grantaire snort. “But I got the rest of it, I’m sure.”

“I’m proud of you,” Grantaire says, and means it full heartedly. She’s come to learn in their short acquaintance that where Enjolras excels in off-the-cuff argument and language, she struggles in memory.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, cheeks pinking slightly. “I am too. Proud of me, I mean. I called Combeferre right away, and he said he was too. So pride all around.” She scuffs her converse on the linoleum.

“Combeferre?” Grantaire asks, not having heard that one. “Boyfriend?”

“No, no, no,” Enjolras says, a bit too quickly. “No. Best friend from back home. I like women.” Grantaire’s eyes widen slightly, and her stomach does an almost pleasant roll. “Not that you needed to know that. That’s too much information.” Enjolras takes a deep breath, her eyes scanning the ceiling, looking pained. “Anyway, Combeferre. Best friend. Other best friend. We message over Facebook all the time, all day, and he’s been hearing about this Spanish class.”

“Well, congrats. You done coming in here then, since the test is done? You better say no, otherwise I’d have to actually do my job.” Grantaire isn’t sure where that last sentence came from; probably somewhere deep inside that is simultaneously afraid to lose this friendship and completely unwilling to let Enjolras know that.

“Well, the class goes through the end of August. We’re moving on to the meats section. So as long as you’re willing to help, I’m willing to come in.” Grantaire’s stomach settles into something warm, like a gooey spoonful of honey on a hot summer’s night.

“Para ti, siempre. Cuentas conmigo." Grantaire says. At Enjolras’ blank look, Grantaire adds, “We’ll get there.”

* * *

 “You know what I’ve never asked you?” Grantaire says one night a week later, apropos of nothing. Enjolras looks up from where she’s writing “pollo” in fifteen different colored sharpies on the label of a chicken breast. “Why you are in here at these hours? Are you nocturnal? An insomniac?”

“Neither,” Enjolras says, capping her pen. “My class is at 7AM, and I’m not a morning person. To be awake for it, I need to have been up already for several hours. So, instead of getting up at 5AM, because, no, I go to bed at about 5PM, and then wake up at midnight, and take my day from there.” She shrugs. “I realize it’s backwards, but I sleep through the worst of the heat, so it works for me.”

“You don’t have to work?”

“I work 9-4, six days a week. It’s not great hours, but my parents help me with the apartment, so it goes for food.”

“That’s got to be nice, having helpful parents.”

“You don’t?” Enjolras asks, staring straight at Grantaire. She fidgets, playing with the hem of her shirt.

“This job pays for the rent for my and my mom’s apartment. My second job at the coffee shop across town pays for food. I work there after this one on weekdays, the morning shift, from 7-12. Then my weekend job as graphic designer at the embroidery shop chips in for the rest. My mom does what she can, but she’s had a stroke, so it’s mostly up to me. Which is fine,” she quickly adds, seeing Enjolras’ pitying expression. “I can do it. Working isn’t so bad.”

“Do you sleep at _all?”_ Enjolras asks.

“Yeah, a bit. I’m only doing one class at a time, and it’s only one day a week. So I don’t sleep too much on Tuesdays, but the rest of the time I sleep pretty much from 1-8. Which works.”

“I’ll be sure to bring you coffee now on Tuesdays,” Enjolras says, nodding, which isn’t what Grantaire was going for at all.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Why do you even work these hours?” Enjolras asks, which is such a blatant shift of topic that Grantaire almost rolls her eyes.

“You won’t like the answer, so.”

“Now you have to tell me,” Enjolras says, leaning forward. Grantaire’s mouth goes a little dry.

“I mean it,” Grantaire says. “You’ll go all ranty.”

“Then I’ll rant. Tell me.” Grantaire sighs.

“My boss wants the prettier girls on the day shift, because apparently they attract more customers and make people want to come back. He doesn’t have to worry about that with the night shift, so here I am.”

Grantaire can hear the clicking of the clock, the whirl of the mini fan she set up, the faint chirping from the crickets outside, but nothing fills the room more than the judgment on Enjolras face.

“What the absolute fucking hell,” Enjolras says, voice low and venomous. Instantly, Grantaire is reminded that although small, Enjolras packs a fiery punch, and she would honestly rather meet a pissed off Rottweiler in a back alley than go against Enjolras in any type of fight.

“Told ya,” Grantaire says, trying to sound smug, but just sounding small.

“What the fucking hell,” Enjolras repeats. She slams her fists onto the chicken, which make an odd squelching noise. “That’s not even _legal,_ and even if it was, how _dare he,_ how could he _say_ that to someone, let alone _you?”_

“Well, I mean, he obviously could. To me.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, voice clipped, too loud.

“Well, I mean. Yeah, it’s shitty.” Impulsively, she scratches at her head. “But he’s probably right about pretty meaning business. And, I mean, it makes sense that it’d be me going nights, in that case. It’s shit, but it’s not like it doesn’t make sense.” Enjolras stares, face white. “I mean, yeah, you know. Yeah. I know what I look like.” Grantaire shrugs awkwardly. This isn’t a conversation she wants to have, acknowledging the large appearance gap that they have so studiously ignored so far. Amazingly enough, Enjolras had never made it seem like it mattered, and even had Grantaire forgetting about it for a while, which is an incredible feat.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras starts, voice heavy, some unidentifiable emotion weighing it down. “R. You’re beautiful. Don’t let people make you feel any different. Know it, own it. You’re beautiful.”

“That’s very kind,” Grantaire says, because it is, even if it’s not fucking true and she knows it, but it still makes her throat close up slightly. “But I know what I look like. And it’s odd.”

“It’s different,” Enjolras snaps, which admittedly is a nice euphemism for too big eyes too close together, and too small a mouth with too bad of teeth, and too frizzy curly hair set on too wide shoulders, and too high a forehead matched with too thin cheeks. Not to mention her broken nose, her wide head, and her bushy eyebrows she’s too lazy to pluck. “But it’s not ugly. It’s nowhere in that ballpark. You’re beautiful to me, and you should be to yourself.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, and means it, her heart feeling hot in that way that only makes sense with crushes. “But in a line of cashiers, no one would pick me first. It makes sense.”

“I’d pick you first. In every situation, in every form of this scenario, I’d pick you first. Final answer.”

“Because you know me,” Grantaire says, not sure why she’s arguing.

“Because you’re you.” Enjolras says, pointedly saying every word. “You’re you, and that’s enough to have me want you, every time.”

Grantaire nods, ignore the word change of “pick” to “want,” because she’s not sure she can handle it if she doesn’t.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

“Good.” Enjolras nods. “Pollo?”

“Double L sounds like Y,” Grantaire says, determinedly ignoring the past five minutes ever happened, like she’ll be able to think of anything else when fixing her cereal or getting gas or trying to sleep.

* * *

 “Blimey, a person,” Grantaire says. Enjolras looks up from where she has been silently reading for the past hour, leaning against the legs of Grantaire’s stool. It’s been about a month since they’ve met, and Enjolras is onto the section of her class where she has to read children’s books and answer worksheets. She’s better at this portion – just slow. Neither girl acknowledges that it’d be easier in the comfort of her own home instead of sitting by Grantaire’s feet on a dirty grocery store floor.

Enjolras looks up.                                                                                       

“Take a picture of this wild, exotic creature,” she mutters, and goes straight back into her book. Grantaire snuffs a laugh, even though it probably wasn’t funny. She’s so busy staring fondly down at Enjolras’ hair, she doesn’t notice the man until he slams down a can of beans about an inch from her hand. She jumps in shock, accidentally kicking Enjolras, who looks up, annoyed.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says to both of them. “Distracted. How are you tonight, sir?” The man ignores her completely, at which Enjolras clucks at her feet, too loud. Grantaire surreptitiously kicks her, on purpose this time. She quickly bags his food, which is a surprisingly large amount for the time of night, and blatantly ignores the alcohol stench steaming off of him, and the fact that his pants are unbuttoned and she’s getting an eye full of curly hair. His last item are green onions, and she quickly scans the label, trying to find the produce code to type into the computer.

“They’re green onions,” the man says, as if talking to a toddler. She smiles at him, her wide one, her fake one.

“I know sir, I’m checking the produce code to type into the computer. 4068.”

“They’re fucking green onions, just type that in.” At that, Enjolras jumps to her feet, obviously pissed. Grantaire fumbles behind her, grabbing her wrist in warning.

“Of course, sir,” she says. “That’s going to be $35.02.”

“What? That’s supposed to be $30. I have gotten the same eleven items from this store every week for years, and it’s always $30 even.”

“Oh? Well, take a look at the screen, see what item might be the problem with the price.”

“See what you fucked up, you mean,” the man says, scanning the screen with exaggerated concentration. Grantaire hears Enjolras whine with frustration, but she squeezes her wrist again. Customers aren’t worth it.

“There it is. The charcoal is supposed to be $5, not $7.” Completely ignoring the fact that that’d only take his bill down to $33, Grantaire looks at the price tag.

“Well, sir, see, the tag says $7.”

“That’s a new price.” It wasn’t, but it didn’t matter.

“Sorry about that, sir.”

“Don’t think I won’t talk to a manager in the morning about it.” He cocks his head at her. “Or, I could always let it go. I’d settle for a kiss, but you could always come home with me. You got the ass for it, if not the face.”

“You don’t have to wait till morning for a manager, sir,” Enjolras says from behind her, making Grantaire jump slightly. In her disgusted shock, she forgot Enjolras was there. “I’m the new night manager, and I’m supervising R tonight. And I can assure you, the charcoal has always been $7, and will always be $7. And I can also assure you that our employee will never be going home with a customer. I can also assure you that if you accost and proposition one of our employees again, you will be banned from this store so fucking fast your won’t have time to say, “I should really button my fly, so people don’t get a glimpse of a dick smaller than my personality.” Goodbye, sir.” Enjolras voice is cool enough to chip ice, her hand tight enough on Grantaire’s shoulder to bruise, and gaze strong enough to stab. Grantaire instinctually leans back into her. The man stares, mouth open, before trying to retaliate.

“You—”

“Did I not make myself abundantly clear, you sack of shit?” Enjolras interrupts. Although she stands a mere five foot, and logically probably couldn’t lift a bag of dog food, in that moment, Enjolras is more authoritative than the President, and Grantaire does not doubt in the slightest that she would throw this man out on his ass. The man apparently agrees, since he grunts, throws down $30, and stalks out.

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes out. “That was fucking badass.”

“You shouldn’t have people talk to you like that. Where the hell do people get off thinking they can say shit like that?”

“That improvisation with the manager bit was fucking brilliant.”

“You’re a human being, you deserve respect, Jesus.”

“I swear, in a different life, you were a military leader.” 

“I should talk to your manager in the morning, actually get him banned.” Grantaire is becoming increasingly aware they are having two very different conversations.

“I wish you’d punched him.” This gets Enjolras’ attention, and she turns, her hard glare finally settling into something softer.

“Me too. But I don’t actually know how to punch anyone. I’d probably break my hand.”

“Next time, we’ll settle for throwing the computer monitor at him.”

Enjolras grin is blinding.

* * *

“You look happy,” Grantaire comments the second Enjolras walks in on a Tuesday night. It’s oppressively hot, stifling; she’s been sticking ice cubes down her shirt all day, trying to ignore the sun’s glare that she can feel all the way throughout her body. It’s hot enough that there is almost a wave of calm throughout the small town, as if they are collectively too tired and dried to even shake their fist in retaliation, or to be outside in spite.

“I am happy,” Enjolras says, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, before handing her a cup of coffee. Grantaire takes it and places it beside her, while noting that Enjolras somehow looks even prettier smiling, and then instantly curses herself for even noticing. “Combeferre called today, and they got my group back up running.”

“Your group?” Grantaire frowns. She flicks her flip-flop back and forth. “Have you mentioned that?”

“Probably not,” Enjolras says. She jumps up and sits on the conveyer belt, knees up to her chest. Like this, she has to look down on Grantaire. “I started it with Combeferre and Courfeyrac during the first year of undergrad. It did really well, and I passed on leadership when I graduated. I really thought it’d keep going. The first day I met you, I actually learned that it had petered out. As a late going away present, Combeferre rallied forces and advertised, and it’s back up to 20 members. I’m thrilled.”

“When you graduated undergrad?”

“Yeah. I have a BA in human relations and a MA in political science.”

“Well fuck me,” Grantaire blurts. “I’m older than you and about a third of the way through an associates, and I thought I was doing well.” Enjolras frowns at her.

“It’s not a contest.”

“If it were, you’d be winning.”

“But it’s not. Not everyone has had the advantages I’ve had. Most haven’t. It doesn’t actually mean I’m more successful. It’s not like I’ve done shit with the degrees.”

Grantaire shrugs, fiddling with a pen. She’s chewing on her necklace, which she doesn’t even remember putting in her mouth. She promptly spits it out.

“Congratulations on your group, I suppose. What was it, a book club?”

“A social activism group, les amis de l'abaisse,” Enjolras says, and is clearly about to go on, but Grantaire can’t help interrupting her.

“Jesus Christ, is that a pun?” Enjolras nods, rolling her eyes.

“Combeferre came up with it,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is now making grand plans to personally meet this man and shake his hand. “It started out just the three of us, and expanded to more than 50 members by the time I handed it over to Marius.”

“Wow, not bad. It must have been hard, just the three of you. You couldn’t have made much difference back then. Three voices aren’t loud.”

“Not being heard is no reason for silence."

“But did anyone ever hear you? Really? You do what, write letter campaigns? Call offices? Picket? Strike? Rally, maybe. Who heard you beyond your group, beyond those who were already listening?” Grantaire asks, because apparently she can’t help herself. She desperately hopes this doesn’t turn out like it did last time.

“Nothing gets done without _someone_ standing out there, screaming at the sky. Being defeatist is easier, and saying no one cares is easier, but the truth is, progress happens all the damn time. Women can now vote, as can people with color. Schools are integrated. You know your grandmother lived in a time where an entire  _race_ was forced to drink from a different water fountain? It seems like so long ago, but it wasn’t. Things have changed because people are willing to take the time to change them.” Enjolras is resting her head on her knees, like this is a conversation she has often.

“Why does it have to be _you?_ Why can’t someone else take up the flame, be the leader of the progressive movement? Who says you are the one to make the difference?”

“I used to research politicians, trying to find the perfect one who agrees with all my ideals, who is honestly in it for the people, some I can rally behind. Eventually, I realized I had to stop looking for it, and become it instead.”

“I just can’t see a student group changing the world, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not always about the world, sometimes it is about just a life.”

“And what about your life? You’d give your life to make one person’s better?”

“Yes,” she says, so simply and sure that Grantaire can’t help but believe her. But fuck, if that’s not idealistic and impressive and impossible, and oh God, she is the type of person you read about in history books.

“Well, I wish you luck. And your group,” Grantaire adds, after a second. “Good luck to them too.”

“I wish I could convince you the world is possible to save,” Enjolras says, looking at her, frowning slightly.

“Well, at least I’m past the point where I don't think it's even _worth_ saving. Baby steps.”

“I can accept that,” Enjolras says, and then grins widely. “Courfeyrac would be so proud of me. Someone disagreeing with me, and I don’t force them to sit in a chair and listen to me explain why they’re wrong for three hours.”

“And why do I get this luxury?” Grantaire asks, smirking. She really needs to inventory the chips, but Enjolras looks so relaxed on the conveyer belt that she doesn’t really have the heart to make her move.

“Because I’m sure you have your reasons for your pessimism. Someday, I’d like to hear them. But right now, I’d rather just talk about nothing, if that’s alright.”

“Always,” Grantaire says, staring up at Enjolras. She puffs away a lock of hair in between her eyes.

* * *

 “I got a letter from my mother today,” Enjolras says a few days later, at almost 4AM. Grantaire side eyes her as she’s refacing all the dishwasher soaps.

“And?” Enjolas fiddles with her fingers.

“She just talked about home a bit. She bought a turtle.”

“Sounds nice,” Grantaire says mildly, turning around another bottle of store-brand soap. The bottle is green, and proclaims _4/5 experts in cleaning recommend it,_ as if that’s an actual field where experts exist.

“She cleaned my room, and found a Harry Potter poster. I forgot I had that,” Enjolras says, twiddling her thumbs. Grantaire nods.

“I miss it,” she says softly, looking at the ground. 

“You’re allowed,” Grantaire answers. Enjolras continues twisting her fingers into unnatural shapes, shoulders slumped, eyes staring holes into her shoes. Grantaire can’t help the slight feeling of panic at the despondent look; of all people, she shouldn’t be sad. Without thinking twice about it, she reaches out, grabs Enjolras’ hand, and pulls her behind her.

“Follow me,” she says, and drags a bemused Enjolras’ two steps behind. Dimly aware of how stupid this plan is, Grantaire pulls her into a stockroom, and locks the door. When she turns, Enjolras is standing with her arms crossed, and eyebrow up.

“Where—”

“Close your eyes,” Grantaire interrupts, which Enjolras’ does, after rolling them. 

“R, where are we?” Enjolras asks, eyes closed, and still managing to look vaguely threatening and questioning.

“We’re in France,” Grantaire invents. “You’re standing by your window in your bedroom. Combeferre is on your bed; Courfeyrac is leaning against your bookshelf. It’s a Monday evening in July, where it is obnoxiously hot and you start to get jealous of us Westerners with our air-conditioned houses. There’s a slight breeze, and the sun is partially hidden by a cloud. Your mom is downstairs, reading a newspaper.” Enjolras’ face is going through a lot of emotions, and Grantaire still can’t tell if they’re good ones, so she finishes with, “Describe your room for me. In detail. You’re there, you’ve teleported. Tell me about it.”

Enjolras hesitates a moment, hands visibly tightening around her elbows, before she swallows heavily.

“Well.” It sounds like there is a lump in her throat. “My window had white curtains, kind of see through, because I liked to be woken up by the sun. It had white paneling that I painted a couple years ago, but it wasn’t very well done, so you can see the purple shine through from how my parents had it when I was a kid. My window overlooked our backyard, which was basically just grass and a single whitebeam tree.” She takes a deep, unsteady breath, before continuing. “Uh, my bed was right across from the window. I had a white, down duvet on red sheets. I always had 3 pillows, two normal and one that was purple and floral that my friend Jehan made me in arts class. I had, uh, have, a little stuffed bear named Julio that sat on that pillow. My bed was never made, but if Combeferre is on it, he probably made it for me.” She smiled slightly, eyes still closed. “If it’s July, he’s probably wearing a black t-shirt. He only has single colored T-shirts, to Courfeyrac’s constant dismay. He’s probably sprawled out with a book, pretending to read it, but actually watching Courfeyrac play with my Rubix Cube. I can actually do them, you know, but Courfeyrac can’t, and it always made him so angry. He used to sit on my floor and mess with it for hours. He’s probably wearing his bright pink Amnesty International T-shirt and his painter shorts. And since it’s July, it’s humid, and his hair is probably a curly mess. And he’s sitting cross-legged on my green carpet, in the middle of the floor. My white ceiling fan is probably on, blowing the air around and not really making anything cooler. It contrasts against my dark green ceiling that my parents hated. My Les Amis posters that are stuck up on the ceiling with tape are probably peeling off a bit. And I’m standing by the window, with my back to them, but I know they are there, and it’s probably quiet, with just the slight buzz that my overhead light always made.”

A similar buzz could be heard now, from the shitty fluorescent light above their heads, hearable now that they descended into silence. Grantaire leans against the door, biting her lip, staring at Enjolras, who was standing now with a large, content smile, still holding her elbows. Slowly, she opens her eyes. 

They stare at one another in complete silence. 

After a moment, Enjolras drops her arms, takes three purposeful steps towards Grantaire, and throws her arms around her neck. 

After a stunned, blank moment, Grantaire raises her arms and tentatively pats her on the back. At the light touch, Enjolras grips on tighter, making Grantaire’s shirt rise slightly. Enjolras’ face is in her neck, and Grantaire can feel her lips move against her skin as she says quietly,

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” Grantaire says into her hair. Before she can decide whether she should enjoy and indulge in enjoying their bodies pressed up against one another, or desperately ignore it for Enjolras’ and her own sanity’s sake, Enjolras pulls back, but she’s still only about a foot away.

“Thank you,” she repeats, sounding more serious, and less watery. 

“It was nothing.” She sees Enjolras’ face turned frustrated, but before she can start a rant about accepting thanks, Grantaire turns. “We’ve been in here for like 10 minutes, and I’ve left the register unmmanned. Come on.” She turns, and hears Enjolras’ soft exhale behind her. They walk back outside, and Grantaire pretends to busy herself organizing around the register. After a minute or two, Grantaire gathers her courage, and looks up to smile at Enjolras. There’s still that indefinable expression on her face, uncharacteristically emotional, but she smiles softly back at Grantaire, and that’s all that matters in her book.

* * *

 “Hey.” Grantaire nods in greeting. Enjolras frowns.

“Are you okay? You sound kind of stuffed up.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire answers, hitting her head up against the register. “I have a cold. My ears hurt and my head hurts and my throat hurts and my body hurts and my eyes hurt and my nose hurts and I can’t breathe.”

“Why are you here?” Enjolras says, sweeping forward. She grabs Grantaire’s shoulder, and puts her other hand to Grantaire’s forehead, as if she knew what a fever felt like and what to do if she found one.

“Whaddyou mean?” Grantaire says, twitching a little, unused to worried attention focused on her.

“If you’re sick, you should have just stayed home.”

“I can’t.” Grantaire shrugs, accidentally shrugging off Enjolras’ hand. She spends a moment too long trying to figure out of there’s a way to ask her to put it back. “There’s no one else trained for the night shift, except the weekend guy, and I’ve only met him like, once. There’s no one to take my place.”

“You have to be able to call in, R. What if you got in an accident, or were throwing up?”

“I dunno,” Grantaire says, putting her head back on the register. Her hair falls in a curtain over her face, and Enjolras’ hand twitches with a want to push it back to see her face. She curls it into a fist. “It’s never come up. But it’s not even that bad, not unworkably bad. I just feel like I’d rather be in bed.”

“If you feel unwell, you should be taken care of. Plus, you could get others sick.”

“What others?” Grantaire asks, yawning. “You’re basically the only one I interact with, other than the one or two people a night.”

“You should take care of yourself,” Enjolras insists.

“Why? No one usually does, and I’m always fine.” Enjolras eyes narrow, and then she turns on the heel of her foot, and stalks into the heart of the store. Grantaire groans.

“Hey, no, come back. Don’t leave me by my lonesome when I’m sick!” She calls, but Enjolras has already disappeared in the aisle ways.

“Great, great. Shit,” Grantaire mutters. She’s not even sure what she did wrong this time, but she really isn’t feeling well enough to expend too much mental effort figuring it out. She puts her head down, and even manages to fall into a doze, before she’s awaken by a shopping basket being poked into her head methodically.

“Wha—?” She mumbles, looking up. Enjolras is standing at her register, looking a little sheepish.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, but I actually don’t know how to use the register, and I’m not stealing.”

“What?” Grantaire sits up, fully awake. “Are you actually buying something?” She looks down, and sure enough, there are several items on the belt. There are some lemons, honey, green tea, ice cream, ginger ale, Kleenex, and some cold medicine. Her breath quickens a little, looking up at Enjolras, who has her hands in her back pockets, and is rocking back and forth on her heels. Grantaire spends a full fifteen seconds with her mind completely blank of a proper response. Bizarrely, she kind of feels like crying.

“Enjolras, you don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I do,” Enjolras says, her smile a little tight, but eyes soft.

“No, no, you don’t. I’m not going to let you spend money on me. This is probably like, over $20. No way I am letting you spend that on my stupid cold.”

“It’s $20, R, not my soul. Let me do this for you.”

“No.” Grantaire shakes her head. “I will not ring these up.”

“Ring up them up or I will tell the morning manager you refused me service,” Enjolras says, firm. Grantaire’s mouth drops. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Enjolras says, voice a bit too soft to be convincing for the argument. “Let me do this. It’d mean a lot to me. Plus, I can always use the extra items. You think I have cold medicine laying around my place?”

“I’m paying you back,” Grantaire mutters after a moment, and grabs the first item.

“Like hell,” Enjolras replies.

The total ends up being $22.32, and Grantaire tries not to squirm in her seat.

“Okay, just sit there and relax. Okay?” Enjolras says, placing the Kleenex next to Grantaire, and gathering the bag with the rest of the items. Grantaire shrugs, helpless. Enjolras walks into the employee break room. Grantaire plays with the end of her plaid shirt absently, and five long minutes later, Enjolras comes back. She hands Grantaire a cup of steaming tea, which smells like lemon and honey. Just the smell makes Grantaire’s throat buzz pleasantly. She places a tablet of cold medicine next to Grantaire.

“There’s ice cream and ginger ale too, when you finish that. But do the tea and medicine first.” Grantaire silently dry swallows the pill, and then sips at her tea. She makes a surprised, happy sound at the flavor.

“This is good tea.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras replies, obviously pleased. “I did my best, but there isn’t a kettle in there.”

“America,” Grantaire replies, which isn’t really an answer, but Enjolras nods anyway.

“Do you need anything else?” Enjolras asks after a quiet moment, biting her lip, and staring at Grantaire. “Do you want me to braid your hair?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Whenever I’m sick, my dad braids my hair to keep it out of my face in case I throw up.” Enjolras says, hands playing with her own hair.

“I don’t have the flu.” Grantaire smiles. “But thanks.”

“I could do it anyway,” Enjolras says, hands now violently twirling her own hair. “If you wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Grantaire asks, sipping her tea. Enjolras shrugs, but immediately moves behind Grantaire, which she takes to mean an eager yes.

“Do you have a band?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire wordlessly hands her a rubber band that was holding the single dollars together. Enjolras runs her fingers through her hair, but they catch on several tangles. Grantaire winces.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Enjolras hurries, but Grantaire cuts her off.

“No, no, I’m just sorry I didn’t comb it. It’s usually a nest, I’m sorry, usually people aren’t touching it, and it’s not like I see anyone who usually cares how I look, and I mean, I know it’s messy—”

“It’s lovely,” Enjolras cuts off, sounding sincere and firm enough that Grantaire resists the urge to bury her face in her hands, and instead settles for blushing fiercely. Enjolras braids her hair, taking a little longer than Grantaire thinks is necessary, and it’s nice, in that heart-wrenching way it always is with crushes, where you simultaneously want to be everywhere and no where else. It’s odd to think that only two months ago she didn’t even know of Enjolras’ existence – and now she consumes her thoughts with pleasant nothings, a permanent residence in her head. Grantaire now knows what it’s like to smile for no reason, and she’s dying, slightly, but it’s manageable, it’s survivable.

Or at least, she thinks it is, until Enjolras finishes the braid with a light tug, heating Grantaire’s body for a reason that has nothing to do with the outside temperature.

She spins around and faces Enjolras, who gives her a light smile. Grantaire’s suddenly just filled with the irrepressible urge to kiss her, so strong that she’s actually leaning in before she even knows she’s doing it. At the last second, she catches herself, placing her head on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras’ hand comes up to stroke her hair, and the other wraps around her back, pulling her against her, and Grantaire can’t help but whimper.

“One of these days,” she breathes into Enjolras’ shirt, too quietly to be heard. “I’ll find my words, and they’ll be simple, and they’ll be right.”

* * *

 “My friends don’t think you exist,” Enjolras says.

“What? Why?” Grantaire looks up from where she’s stocking the eggs.

“Because I come here every weekday night, and we just hang around each for like six hours, doing nothing.”

“We do Spanish,” Grantaire interjects, which isn’t even remotely true anymore, which is probably why Enjolras rolls her eyes and ignores her.

“They don’t believe I could have a friend where we just sit around and enjoy each other’s company. I’m usually the friend that always forces us to go and do something while we hang out.”

“I’m working, technically. We can’t go anywhere.”

“Do you want to?” Enjolras asks. “Because I’m kind of content just sitting with you.” Grantaire swallows down the lump in her throat, refusing to get emotional because someone actually likes her company.

“I guess you’re good enough on your own,” she says, staring a little too focused at the eggs.

“Would you mind talking to Courfeyrac on the phone for a minute, to prove you exist?”

“Could you not just send him a selfie of us?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras frowns.

“I didn’t think of that.” She walks forward, grabs Grantaire by the shoulder, raises her phone, and snaps a photo just as Grantaire thinks to smile.

“Let me see that before you send it,” Grantaire says. Enjolras rolls her eyes.

“No, you’ll just veto it. You look fine, don’t worry.”                     

“I don’t want to be introduced to your best friend looking _fine,”_ Grantaire says, knowing she’s probably overreacting a little. Enjolras is completely ignoring her to tap on her phone, and then startles when it starts ringing. To Grantaire’s complete joy, her ringtone is Uptown Funk.

“Shit,” Enjolras says, before answering. “Bonjour.” And thus begins a three minute long, rapid-fire French conversation that has Grantaire completely tuning her out, which is probably why she jumps when Enjolras sticks the phone in her face.

“Say hi to Courfeyrac. Quickly, so he knows you exist. He knows Spanish better than English.” Grantaire gingerly takes the phone.

“Hola,” she says, and is greeted with an overly enthusiastic and long response that basically boils down to _Holy shit, you do exist!_

“Enjolras wants the phone back,” Grantaire says, momentarily forgetting to talk in Spanish.

“¡Espere!” Courfeyrac yells. Obediently, Grantaire waits. It sounds like the phone is trading hands.

“Grantaire?” A masculine, heavily accented voice says.

“Combeferre?” Grantaire guesses, which makes Enjolras’ eyes go wide, and suddenly she’s diving for the phone.

“Ask her out,” Grantaire hears as the phone is ripped from her hand and into Enjolras’. Grantaire sits numbly by the eggs, watching as Enjolras hisses into the phone and paces by the breads, obviously displeased.

Enjolras hasn’t said much about Combeferre, or anything about France really, but Grantaire definitely has gotten the impression that he was her closest confidant, and that they still keep in near constant communication.

So, theoretically, he probably has the best gauge of whom Enjolras is interested in, and would more than likely never put her in a situation where she could either be hurt or embarrassed. Theoretically, listening to Combeferre is probably a good idea.

Non-theoretically and completely realistically, though, Grantaire is scared shitless, and is fully aware that Enjolras is so far out of her league she’s practically a Jules Verne novel.

“I’m sorry about that,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is just now noticing that her French accent has faded slightly. She hasn’t picked up Grantaire’s low, slow drawl, but she definitely sounds more American than when she first arrived.

Grantaire is pretty sure she’s horrified that Enjolras is picking things up off her, but that doesn’t seem to be a good thing to focus on when she’s considering actually making a move.

“They’re just interested in my only friend here,” Enjolras says, kneeling beside Grantaire, like that is an off-the-cuff remark and not life changing.

“Only friend?”

“Well,” Enjolras starts, and stops, letting the sentence stand. The egg cooler behind them buzzes quietly.

“You okay?” Enjolras asks, looking over at Grantaire, eyes large and steel-blue and worried. Grantaire turns to face her, head on, and takes a deep, steadying breath. She still feels unbalanced.

“How do you feel about ten seconds of reckless courage that could turn out _very_ badly or _very_ good?” Grantaire asks, heart beating wildly. If she’s surprised, Enjolras doesn’t show it.

“Very pro.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, before quickly leaning forwards, and kissing Enjolras hard on the mouth.

Enjolras squeaks, and Grantaire quickly has to correct the angle, but after a moment, Enjolras wraps her arms around Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire buries her hand in the blond curls, and their mouths open and their tongues meet, and their bodies are pulled flush together, and Grantaire can feel the soft contours of her figure, and everything is so warm, warm, warm — and suddenly they are tipping, overbalanced on Grantaire’s side, and she falls straight back into the eggs she had been shelving, her elbows hitting the floor hard.

“Umph,” Grantaire wheezes.

“Oh my God, are you okay? Are the eggs okay?”

“The eggs most definitely feel like they are not okay.” Grantaire sits up, and rubs her elbows. Enjolras is looking at her, worried, hand on her shoulder, and her hair is slightly messed up, and her lips are slightly red, and she may just be the greatest sight Grantaire has ever seen.

“Shit, are you going to get in trouble?”

“I don’t give a goddamn fucking shit,” Grantaire says, and before Enjolras can respond, she reaches forward, and pulls her back in. And at her large sigh, Grantaire’s fairly confident Enjolras doesn’t care either.

After a moment, Enjolras pulls away slightly.

“To be completely clear,” she says, lips still close enough to Grantaire’s that she can feel her breath. “This isn’t just a kiss, right? This is dating?”

“This is dating,” Grantaire confirms, and presses light, feathery kisses to her mouth, neck, jawline, anywhere.

“Are we really going to spend the entire night making out in the frozen aisle?” Enjolras asks, sounding a bit breathless.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, and surges forward again.

And they do.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to learn how to write plot, because none of my stories have any. 
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. Have a blessed day. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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